Chapter 5
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The auction grounds are packed. Harsh winter wind bites at my face and neck as we stand beside a group of wrinkled ranchers Grandpa hasn’t told to get lost yet.
The old man knows just about everyone who owns so much as a lick of farmland in this province.
“They’re connections , ” he says. I think he’s just a goddamn hoarder of acquaintances.
The thick wool socks I forced myself to wear inside my boots are paying off with the quickly dipping November temperature. It’s a damn shame my Stetson doesn’t come with ear warmers.
“Brody, come here,” Grandpa huffs.
Snow crunches beneath my feet as I join the group, trying not to focus on the bitter judgment that flicks in the eyes of the old men.
I knew my choice to leave Cherry Peak would rub a few members of the community the wrong way, but while the majority of people understood . . . these men did no such thing.
I don’t say anything as I sidle up beside my grandfather, taking note of the familiar hat resting over the top of his shoulder-length silver hair.
He refuses to cut it, even when Grandma chases after him with her scissors.
I can’t tell him to cut it either, considering I refuse to do the same thing to mine.
Blue eyes so similar to mine land on my face and stay there, watching as I tip my chin at the men. “Hey.”
“Brody,” George grumbles. He’s the toughest of Grandpa’s friends, a millionth-generation cattle rancher similar to the Steeles. “You didn’t tell us you were bringing your grandson, Wade.”
My grandpa blows a foggy breath into the cool air. “’Course I was. He’s helping me pick a good buy today.”
George’s eyes sharpen. “You haven’t forgotten how to lift a hood in the time you’ve been gone?”
And so it begins. My shoulders tense as I slip my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Some things aren’t easily forgotten.”
“So you say,” George grinds out. “We’ll see inside, won’t we?”
Cool tension ripples from my grandfather as he takes a single step toward his friend and slaps a hand between his shoulders. “Brody doesn’t need an old ass pissin’ all over his foot. Let me him be and head inside.”
George glances at the other two men, who don’t have the nerve to stick their noses in whatever problem he has with me, and they wait for him to lift his glare from my face before following him toward the auction gates.
Grandpa lingers beside me, a heavy silence swirling between us until he slices through it with two words. “Ignore him.”
“Been ignorin’ him since I got back to town. He doesn’t make it easy.”
“They’re stuck in their old ways.”
It’s more than that. They’re protective of the old man, and that’s a good thing. But also a pain in my ass. “I’m not their enemy. I’m not here to cause trouble with your little cadre.”
“Cadre,” he echoes, barking a rough laugh. “Is it such a bad thing for an old man to surround himself with friends?”
“No, it isn’t. Even if they’ve got nearly a century of sticks up their asses.”
Another laugh, this one hoarse, highlighting the damage caused by a lifetime of smoking cigarettes. “I recommend you don’t say that to their faces unless you’re prepared to taste leather, boy.”
I shrug. “They’d never catch me.”
The crow’s feet beside his eyes tighten when his mouth twists. He shakes his head, silver hair flying in the wind. I laugh softly, not risking strengthening the pain in my throat.
“Suppose you got a point there. If we linger out here any longer, they’ll take all the good shit on purpose,” he says a beat later.
I sniff and let him lead the way inside.
A disgusting amount of money later, my grandfather is off making delivery plans for his new purchases while I linger by his truck, breathing into my hands to bring some warmth back to them.
It was a stupid decision not to bring gloves, but fuck if my grandfather won’t just let me sit inside the cab while I wait.
Most people leaving don’t pay me a lick of attention—either from being used to seeing me around for my entire life or just not giving enough of a shit to bother gawking at me—so it’s easy to tell who the out-of-towners are.
The muttered words spoken between friends as they stroll by, wide-eyed at my presence, are enough of a giveaway.
Citizens of Cherry Peak don’t bother whispering when they’re speaking about anyone, even when it comes to their “hometown celebrity.” They’re loud and unafraid of the damage their words could cause.
Maybe it’s the out-of-towners’ effort to hide their curiosity that has me acknowledging the two teenage boys with a half-smile when they pass by, their eyes bright with surprise and misplaced awe.
I slip into the mask I wear when meeting fans and watch as they grin and shuffle past, not making any move to come speak to me. I’m grateful for that.
A familiar buzzing rhythm moves along my thigh before I use frozen fingers to pull my phone free. One look at the text and my guard shoots up, invisible snakes hissing in my mind.
16045557841: That picture wasn’t meant for you.
A cool reply from the stranger Caleb couldn’t resist replying to yesterday.
When she didn’t respond back to him—or me, I guess—I figured she tucked tail and blocked my number after he sent that ridiculous flirty fucking answer.
Maybe I should have been the one to block the number just to be safe. To avoid this exact situation.
Not even a heartbeat later, another message comes through.
16045557841: You didn’t like . . . keep the photo, right? I would appreciate if you removed it from your spank bank if you did.
I scoff, smoke puffing out of my mouth. As if.
Me: I’m not that desperate.
I read the words again and wince, but I’ve already sent the message. That didn’t exactly come out how I meant it to, and when she replies, I know I’ve fucked up.
16045557841: Desperate? DESPERATE? Alright. Leave it up to me to even accidentally text a world class asshole. How typical.
I tap my thumbs on the screen, tonguing my cheek.
My grandpa’s voice rings through the parking lot, marking his return.
I don’t miss the anger-bitten words he hollers to George before stomping toward the truck.
With my fingers moving with a slow numbness, I type out four quick words and hit Send before slipping my phone away.
Me: That came out wrong.
Grandpa reaches me two breaths later, and we slide into the truck, heading back to the ranch. He’s normally a quiet man, but this isn’t a normal silence. For the majority of the drive, he broods , as Grandma would describe.
I let him sit in his silence for the hour-long drive back but halt him when we pull up outside of the house and he goes to get out of the truck.
“What happened?”
He stiffens, freezing with one hand on the door handle. “Nothin’ you need to worry about.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You were perfectly fine not carin’ about our problems for a long while, boy. You don’t gotta start up again now.” He grinds the words out, avoiding eye contact.
I swallow, my chest tightening, but focus on keeping my voice level. “I’ve been wonderin’ how long it would take you to finally admit how you felt about me being back here. Took longer than I thought.”
“I didn’t admit anythin’, smartass. Get inside. Your grandmother is waitin’.”
“I’m not a young kid you can boss around anymore,” I point out, the words steely.
Something happened in that goddamn auction to bring this out.
I’ve been walking on eggshells since I got back, just waiting for him to finally let me know how pissed he was when I left the ranch to pursue music.
Of course, the bullheaded man refused to be honest about his feelings until now.
When someone said something to him to spark this reaction.
“By all means, spend the night with the pigs, then,” he growls before carefully shutting the truck door and stalking up the porch steps.
I straighten my spine, following after him. His head whips back when I shut the truck door harder than I should. “What happened to ignoring them? That golden nugget of advice only carries weight when it comes to me bitin’ my tongue?”
The porch door swings open, and soft footsteps on the freshly stained wood can only belong to one woman.
I fight to keep from looking at my grandmother.
Her husband does the same, his narrowed eyes focused solely on me.
The hurt I find lying there is gone in a blink, leaving me to wonder if it was ever there at all.
“Careful, Brody. You might be too old for me to boss around, but this is still my house. You’ll speak to me with respect while you’re here,” he snaps.
I bite down hard on my tongue to keep my retort from spilling out. The words he left unspoken are crystal clear. I’ll treat him with respect while I’m here, however long that will be this time.
A fleeting look at my grandmother has my stomach sinking like a rock in a pond. Her soft green eyes are torn, the mouth that’s always lifted in a smile turned down. The wind whips her short black-and-silver hair against her cheeks, and she doesn’t bother to brush it away.
I flash her a weak smile before spinning on my heel and striding toward the shop, not ready to coexist in the house with them for a good while. Neither of them tries to stop me.
The weather has only gotten worse, the temperature dropping alongside the sun.
But it’ll be warm in the shop, so I don’t hide from the chill or the sting on my frozen cheeks.
I’ve spent more time in the shop these past few weeks than I have the guest house I’ve moved back into.
God knows I love my grandparents, but the guilt that followed my return—hell, followed my leave two years ago—keeps me from settling back into how things used to be.
Grandma treats me the same. I think she’s just happy to have me back.
But Grandpa tries to play it off, especially in front of the community and his closest friends, but those who know him well see right through it.
The hurt and nagging feeling of abandonment.
The fear. It’s right below that calm exterior, and moments like just now show me how deep those feelings run.
Shouldering the shop door open, I step inside and take a heady lungful of fuel and oil. Something settles deep in my chest. A sense of rightness, maybe.
I fall into a familiar sense of mind as I pick up my metal box of tools from the shining silver workbench and carry it to the same tractor that’s been pissing hydraulic fluid for a solid two days.
An hour later, I’ve changed out the line and reattached the connectors. I wipe my greasy palms along my thighs and stretch out my neck, noting the lack of tension there. Only a nip of it lingers, and it’s guilt more than anger with my grandfather.
There’s black beneath my nails when I pull free my phone and scroll through the notifications, finding three text messages from the stranger. Each one makes my guilt grow.
16045557841: You know what? Fuck you. As if I’d let myself be insulted by someone who could very well be a disgusting human being.
16045557841: I’m HOT. Very hot. You’d be struck stupid if you ever saw me in person. Which you will N O T.
16045557841: Lose this number.
She doesn’t lack confidence, that’s for sure. Or spunk.
I contemplate my reply, knowing damn well I shouldn’t even bother. It’s more effort than it’s worth. I don’t owe her an apology. But that’s not how I was raised—to insult women, even accidentally.
Me: I didn’t mean it that way. Your body is great.
I delete the words with a grimace.
Me: I meant that I’m not desperate enough to use a stranger’s photos in that way.
Fuck. I erase that message too.
Me: I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.
I send the message before I can talk myself out of it and wait for a reply. Five minutes go by before the message changes from Delivered to Read. Another two minutes pass. Then another.
A low laugh crawls up my throat when she leaves me on Read, not responding.
Touché, stranger. Touché.